"Quentin—"
We both stopped. Almost smiled.
"You first," I said.
He came around the desk. Closer. Not too close. Maintaining that careful professional distance that felt impossible after we'd been tangled together on his couch.
"About last night," he started.
"I know. It was a mistake. We crossed lines we shouldn't have crossed. It can't happen again." The words came out in a rush. Rehearsed after all.
"That's what you think?"
"Isn't it what you think?"
"I asked you first."
I looked at him. Really looked at him. At the slight circles under his eyes. The tension in his shoulders. The way he was holding himself so carefully controlled.
"I think," I said slowly, "that last night was one of the best nights I've had in a long time. And also one of the most complicated. And I don't know what to do with that."
"Yeah. That's... yeah." He ran his hand through his hair. "I spent all night trying to convince myself it was a mistake."
"Did it work?"
"No."
My heart jumped. "Quentin—"
"I know what I should do. What the smart thing is. Stone spent an hour with me listing all the reasons this is dangerous." He stepped closer. "But I can't stop thinking about you."
Say something. Say the smart thing. The professional thing.
"I can't stop thinking about you either," I whispered.
"So what do we do?"
"I don't know."
"We could..." He paused. "We could pretend it didn't happen. Keep things professional. Boss and assistant. Nothing more."
"We could."
"But?"
"But I don't think I can."
"Neither can I."
We stood there, caught between what we should do and what we wanted to do.
"This is a terrible idea," I said.
"Probably the worst."
"You're my boss."
"I know."
